A Friend in Need
by CSIGurlie07
Summary: One day Jack O'Neill gets a phone call from an old friend, and a tearful plea for help.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I don't usually do crossovers, but this idea just felt right. I've had to rearrange some dates as far as the Stargate: SG-1 timeline goes. I've lined it up so that the second season of Sanctuary coincides with the sixth or seventh season of SG-1. So that means Jack O'Neill is still a Colonel, and Gen. Hammond is still in charge of the SGC._

_Let me know what you think! Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>The phone call came on a lazy afternoon within the SGC.<p>

Such an afternoon was a rarity, but it was soured by the stacks of paperwork that had accumulated on Colonel Jack O'Neill's desk—the stacks of paperwork that General Hammond expected to receive, completed, by close of business that day.

So when the shrill ring of the telephone shattered the soul-crushing monotony, O'Neill snatched it up with the urgency of a drowning man being thrown a life preserver.

"Talk to me," he said, not unfriendly-y. In fact, he had half a mind to give his caller a bribe to generate some sort of emergency to get out of the paperwork. He hoped it was someone from the science department. They had a lot of emergencies—he figured it would give the distraction some credibility.

But when, for a long moment, nothing but the sound of breathing came from the other end of the line, his thoughts of potential shenanigans slowly bled away. His gut twisted with the feeling that something was wrong—the breathing come through the phone hitched with what could only be heavy emotion.

"Who's there?" he asked finally. There was some suspicion in his words, but he knew that it was unlikely this caller was a threat. Whoever it was would have had to call the main switchboard to the mountain, and then get transferred twice to get to his extension, and all that without the knowledge of whether or not he would even be in his office. This was the first time in months he'd spent more than five minutes in the room at any given time.

Whoever this was, they would have really needed to talk to him to go through all that.

Finally, after a long moment, a shaky voice thick with tears sounded through the receiver.

"O'Neill…"

Jack instantly straightened, leaning forward intently. "Magnus. What's wrong?"

The voice of Helen Magnus was unmistakable. Soft, accented, and burdened with the experience of two lifetimes. Plus, she was the only one who called him "O'Neill".

He'd asked her why once, after he forbade her from using his rank when it was just the two of them together—he'd accept Jack, or John, or Jonathan, even, but she insisted on O'Neill.

She'd almost ignored his inquiry as to why, but finally revealed that a) Jack gave her nightmares, b) John broke her heart, and that c) Jonathan was too presumptuous for a man as blunt as he was.

He'd known then that there was more to her reasoning, but he'd let it go. He knew her secret—158 years of life came with its own tragedies, and god knew how many Johns, Jacks, and Jonathans she might have buried.

So he had accepted O'Neill and returned the sentiment by calling her Magnus, and to this day she was the only one who addressed him by his surname only.

But he'd never heard her cry—not once since he'd met her thirteen years ago in the desert of Iraq, when she'd rescued him from near death in a POW camp.

"Magnus, talk to me." This time, his voice was gentle, almost pleading for her to speak to him. He was never one for emotions, when he could avoid them, but if Magnus was coming to him in such distress, then it couldn't be good.

In fact, it downright scared him.

"I…" Her voice petered out, but a moment later she came back. "_I need you_."

The confession came as a whisper, but hit him like a lightning bolt to the chest. If Magnus was anything, vulnerable wasn't it.

Oh, he knew she hurt and she bled and she felt loss like anyone else. But she was a trooper, and she suffered through even the worst of injuries as well as any battle-hardened Marine or Airman he'd ever met.

"Helen, what happened?"

The use of her given name seemed to have the opposite effect than what he'd intended. Instead of calming, her breaths only grew more ragged, and even through the scratchy phone line, he could hear her start to crumble.

"I—I can't—"

In an instant, Jack's instinct to protect was jumpstarted. "Are you in danger?"

This time, there was a slight hesitation in her voice, barely perceptible. "No. Not anymore."

Dealing with the fallout, then. And again, if Helen was coming to him for help… Not good.

He stood abruptly, the papers on his desk already forgotten. "All right," he said firmly, his voice calm. "Where are you?" Knowing Magnus, it could be anywhere in the world.

"The Sanctuary," came the whispered response. He heard a muffled gasp as she tried to control the sobs threatening to overcome her. "Old City."

"Are you safe?"

"Yes."

Jack felt the first vestiges of relief creep into his gut. "Good. Stay there. I'm on my way."

And with that, he put the phone back in its cradle, ending the call. Anyone else might have been offended, but Magnus needed him _there _as soon as possible, not on the phone. She'd always appreciated efficiency, and he knew now would be no different.

Jack left his office without a second thought, and within moments was knocking briskly on a nondescript door. He was moving to enter the room even before receiving an acknowledgement.

"Colonel, you know that door was closed for a reason—"

One look at his expression was enough for General George Hammond to know something was wrong.

"I'll have to call you back in a few minutes, Mr. President," he said into the red phone against his ear. "Something's come up."

Jack waited until the phone was hung up before speaking. "Is the Daedalus still in orbit, General?"

"Yes, they are still making repairs—" Hammond's response was cut short.

"I need to get beamed to Old City," Jack interrupted. "It's an emergency."

The general eyed him. "You know I can't authorize something like that."

"Yes, sir, you can," Jack countered. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here and we both know it."

The crinkle in Hammond's brow betrayed the truth of the observation. Still, the general remained hesitant.

"Look, sir, I've got a list as long as my arm of all the things I've got coming in return for saving the world… how many times?"

He didn't bother to supply a number, and he didn't wait for Hammond to either. "You do this, sir, and that list is null and void."

That got Hammond's attention. Jack was notoriously self-effacing, and for him to not only bring up the debt the planet had to him, but to summarily dismiss it in return for granting this one request spoke volumes as to its importance.

"What is this all about, Colonel?" Hammond asked, the edge to his voice gone in a breath.

Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. "I don't know," he answered honestly.

"What's in Old City?" The general paused. "Where _is_ Old City?"

"I can't tell you the first, and the Daedalus' onboard computer should be able to answer the second," the colonel returned blithely.

Hammond's eyes narrowed in impatience. "You know I can't authorize an excursion—through Asgard beaming technology no less—without knowing what kind of trouble my officers might run into."

"It's not your officers, George, it's me. Only me," Jack clarified. "And if it makes you feel better, I have a friend there, a friend who needs me. That's all I can tell you, because it's pretty much all I know myself." A heavy silence settled over both of them. Jack broke it a tense moment later. "Will you authorize it or not, sir?"

Hammond regarded him for a long moment. After all the years of service to his country—and his planet—Jack O'Neill had never asked for anything in return. The uncertainty of the entire situation had Hammond on edge, but the colonel had long ago earned the benefit of the doubt.

Finally, the general nodded. "I'll get Sergeant Harriman to contact the Daedalus," he said, picking up the black phone sitting on his desk. "Should I even ask if you'll give us more information on your return?"

"Probably not," Jack returned. Magnus' work, while known in certain circles of the government, were light years beyond top secret. Even the SGC, as classified as they were, didn't have the clearance to know the kind of research Helen Magnus did—or to even know who Helen Magnus was.

Thankfully enough, the general seemed to respect it. He spoke brusquely into the phone, then returned it to its cradle before his gaze settled once more on Jack. "I want you to contact me as soon as you get a definite answer on how much time you'll need to take. You've got enough vacation days saved, but if there's an emergency, you will be recalled."

"Understood, sir," Jack answered. "Thank yo—"

In a flash of light, he was out of the SGC before he had a chance to finish his thought. He saw the bridge of the Daedalus for a brief second before he was once more awash with white light and he found himself on a familiar street corner. On the next block he could see the stone towers of the Sanctuary rising above the surrounding buildings.

In moments he was at the front door, levering the massive doorknockers to signal his arrival. He heard the sounds echo within the Sanctuary, and knew that electronic signals were being relayed to every room in the place, especially in the lab in the heart of everything. He tried to remain patient, knowing it could take a while for someone to come to the door from within the depths of the Sanctuary, but Helen's strained voice echoed in his ears, reminding him of the urgency.

Finally, the door opened, revealing the familiar shaggy frame of Magnus' manservant. Docile, genteel, and loyal beyond reason, the creature was still a sight to be seen. No one had told him explicitly, but Jack had long ago realized Magnus' friend was the mysterious monster known as Bigfoot.

Or at least, one of the Bigfoots. It stood to reason there were more, if the rumors were true. But in the Sanctuary he was simply Helen's old friend, affectionately called 'Big Guy' by the rest of Magnus' team. The thing loved Magnus, and Jack knew he would have the information he was looking for.

"Where is she?" Jack said bluntly.

Expressive yellow eyes regarded him for a long moment. There was a sadness in the big guy's eyes, a muted pain that made Jack's gut hurt. But if he was surprised to see Jack, he kept it well-hidden. Finally, the manservant opened the door wide, allowing him entrance.

"In the old garden," came the grunted reply.

And with that Jack was off, jogging through the halls of the Sanctuary in search of the specified location. It was on the far side of the Sanctuary, if memory served, and was more akin to a ruin than an actual garden.

There was a functional garden on the east side of the building, full of flowers and shrubs of both the normal and not-so-normal varieties. The old garden was overgrown, wild, and strewn with forgotten monuments and tumbled stones. He didn't know why Magnus let remain so unkempt, when she ran the rest of her house with a firm hand and preferred order over chaos. Whatever her reason, he didn't much care- all he cared about was reaching her, and figure out what had her so, so...

Her voice echoed in his ears, even as he finally reached his destination. As he stepped from the dark interior of the Sanctuary into the open air garden, he paused, taking in the sight before him. Pale shafts of sunlight threw the overgrown ruins into stark relief, and illuminated the garden's sole occupant with ghostly light. The tall frame was clad in a simple black dress, all lines and angles on a slim figure. Dark curls hid her features from view, but he recognized the bowed head.

It was her.

"Magnus," he called, trotting across the grass to where she stood.

Her head lifted sharply at the sound of his voice, and watery blue eyes instantly focused on his approach. He could see her surprise, and knew that she hadn't expected him to get there so soon. He didn't blame her—by earthly conventions, it would have taken hours to get from Cheyenne Mountain to Old City.

"O'Neill." Her voice was raspy, and thick with unshed tears. He could see the offending moisture clouding her usually razor-sharp gaze. "What—?"

"You called me," Jack answered.

"Yes, but that couldn't have been more than ten minutes ago."

Jack gave her a knowing look. "No questions," he prompted, utilizing the phrase that had evolved into something almost like code.

She used it when something was too dangerous or complicated to explain, and he used it when something was classified. They both respected it, and this time was no different as she nodded in acceptance. Jack didn't think she really cared anyway.

The temporary distraction summarily dismissed, Magnus returned her gaze to the garden's floor, her jaw tightening against whatever was plaguing her from within. He saw her gaze fixed on a cleared stone in front of her, but it wasn't until he moved to stand next to Helen that he saw the stone's inscription.

_Ashley Magnus_

_1987-2009_

_Loving Friend, Cherished Daughter_

Jack's heart sank with realization. Familiar dread wrenched his gut, threatening to tear it in two as the well-known flood of grief washed through him.

He knew Ashley. Helen's daughter. He'd been told the circumstances of her birth, over a third round of tequila one night.

He'd heard the slurred story, and seen the fierce love she'd felt for her miracle child. It had made his head hurt, even after the hangover had dissipated, but in the end, the details hadn't mattered. The next day, he'd watched Magnus with her then five-year-old little girl, and known all he needed to.

That afternoon, after seeing them together, he'd finally taken his leave of the Sanctuary, and returned to his own newborn son, Charlie. The memory of that day wrenched his gut twice over—for his own lost son, and for Helen's loss.

He now knew why Magnus had called him. And it damn near broke his heart.

He stared at the stone for a long moment, not missing the fact that it stood on grassy turf; there was no sign of a recent burial. He knew what it meant—no body to bury. With a sidelong glance he looked to Magnus' profile once more, taking in the glistening tears and the tight line of her lips against pale skin. Her throat worked silently, but to speak or hold back her emotions Jack couldn't tell.

The years were the only dates on the stone, and said nothing about when the tragedy might have occurred. But judging from the haggard dark circles under Magnus' bright blue eyes, it had been days, and it didn't take a genius to see that it was only just beginning to hit home. And as a choked sob finally emerged from the stoic doctor beside him, it was clear she was crumbling under the weight of it.

Without a moment's hesitation Jack turned, and pulled his friend into a firm embrace. Her arms got caught against his chest, and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as the dam broke, and her body shook with long overdue release.

"Helen," he whispered with knowing compassion, "I'm so sorry."

"It's all my fault," she sobbed, her voice muffled against his chest. "Oh, god…"

He lifted his hand, and gently cupped the back of her head. "You can't go down that road, Helen. It'll destroy you."

With a violent shove she pushed away from him, putting distance between herself and his words. She glared at him, her eyes sharp with grief. "Maybe it should!" she cried, her accented voice resounding loudly against the surrounding stone.

"It should have been me! I have been waiting for death for over a hundred years—it should have been _me_. She was too young…" Her words faded suddenly, the pain coming back full force. "So young…"

Silence fell, even as tears continued to trail their way down Helen's cheeks.

"_Oh, God_." The words escaped her lips disguised as a sob, and her knees buckled, her hand reaching towards him instinctively. And he was there to catch her as her world came crumbling down.

He'd suffered the same, and he wouldn't let her suffer alone. He'd lost his son— it had nearly killed him, and had taken a trip to a world on the far side of the galaxy and a run-in with a alien wannabe deity to shake him back into his senses.

_She_ had lost generations, in the blink of an eye. He'd thought about it once, seeing her play with her daughter. Magnus would have seen grand-children and great-grand-children; she had been prepared to help raise her mortal legacy for decades, maybe even centuries to come.

That future had been ripped away. She was now alone, in every sense of the word.

Hell, she didn't even have a body to bury.

And all he could offer her was the only thing he'd wanted after he'd buried his boy. No reassurances, no promises that it wasn't her fault or that it would get better, because she wouldn't accept the first, and the second would do more harm than good. Because as much as it hurt, as horrifying as it was for a parent to bear… The idea of it hurting any less, the thought of forgetting for even a moment was even worse.

So he simply held her, and gave her the silent support she needed. Because she was like him in more than just loss—she wouldn't let herself show this weakness to her staff, and breaking down in solitude would be dangerous. But with him she didn't need to maintain appearances, because he was the only one who could even come close to understanding.

Eventually, her sobs quieted, leaving her exhausted in his arms. He continued to take her weight, and the little effort it took left him wondering how long in had been since she'd had a decent meal. And when her breaths evened out to a gentle rhythm, he wondered how long it had been since she'd slept.

"Hey," he said softly, arching his neck down to see her eyes flutter open. Even the haze of near-sleep wasn't enough to hide the grief in her eyes. "Let me take you upstairs so you can rest," he continued.

Her eyes immediately darted to the polished stone before them, even as she pulled away. He saw the murmured _no_ coming, and kept a firm grip on her arms despite her efforts to reestablish the distance between them.

But when he refused to let her go, her struggles doubled as she tried to shove him away. "No!"

"Magnus, look at me," he ordered firmly, but she seemed to barely hear him. "Look at me!"

She froze, her wide blue eyes sparkling with fresh tears. Her breaths came in harried gasps, and Jack could see the beginnings of panic stealing over her. He moved quickly to stave off her anxiety, knowing that keeping her calm was more important than anything else.

"You wanna stay here, I get that," he continued gently, holding her tightly. "But you can't. Making yourself sick isn't going to help anyone. You need to rest, and you need to eat."

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he countered. "What you can't do is let this destroy you. Because the second you let that happen, then her loss, her sacrifice, is for nothing."

The tension in her frame told him he'd struck a nerve, and was enough for him to figure her death was not accidental. If Ashley was anything like her mother, she wouldn't have thought twice about giving her life to save her mother, or anyone else.

He held Magnus' gaze, refusing to let her look away.

"You owe it to her to stick around," he continued, driving his point home. "Because who else is going to honor her memory, if not her mother?"

For a long moment, the old garden was filled with silence. At first glance, Magnus gave no indication she had heard him. But Jack knew his words had gotten through to her even before the tears spilled down her cheeks, and her chin nodded in understanding.

The fight left her body, and Jack pulled her into another bracing hug. But this one was as brief as the first had been prolonged, and they pulled apart a moment later. To Jack's knowing eyes, she was now even more exhausted, their brief argument seemingly devouring the last of her energy.

"Will you be able to make it upstairs?" he asked gently. "I could carry—"

Her dark head shook in a negative. "That's quite unnecessary," she answered, her accent lilting in its usual stoicism, as if she hadn't just lost it in front of him. "I'll be fine."

With a grin, Jack wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her close as his free hand took one of hers. "Well, unfortunately, I know what 'fine' really means," he said. "I'll help you upstairs, and then get your furry friend to bring up something to eat."

Her gaze remained heavy, but she humored him anyway. "And what does 'fine' really mean, pray tell?"

"That you're coherent enough to pretend to go along with me just long enough for me to leave you alone, and then go back to work as soon as I'm out of sight."

"You're far more astute than I gave you credit for."

"Nah, I just work with a lot of smart people who think that 'fine' is the magic word. I've even used it myself a few times. And just like our doc on base, I know that it's absolute bull. Actually, you'd probably like the doc on base. She's good, but damn if she's not a stick of dynamite when she wants to be…"

He related pointless details to her as they moved through the Sanctuary. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered, but he was worried enough about her state of mind that he felt the need to distract her, lest she change her mind and try to go back to the garden. So he rambled as they passed through the halls, and they moved past the house's occupants.

The Big Guy nodded in approval at him from a surreptitious corner of the hall, acknowledging O'Neill's success where he had failed for days. Jack then saw him move towards the kitchen, no doubt to prepare one of the overflowing trays of food Jack remembered all too well from his previous stays here.

Henry Foss stared after them wordlessly—he'd certainly grown since the last time Jack had seen him, and Jack felt acutely aware of his own increasing age. But Jack didn't know the lanky, bookish guy just outside Magnus' quarters.

He looked a little like Daniel, actually, especially when the kid started studying the way he was supporting Magnus, as though trying to read between the lines of what might be between them.

But Jack refused to stop to talk to any of them, and before he knew it they were in her private sitting room. He knew from his previous visits to the Sanctuary that the door in the far right led to her bedchamber, and the door to the near right led to her personal study—it had served a short stint as Ashley's nursery until the mischievous little girl had outgrown it.

All three rooms were styled much like the rest of the Sanctuary, full of Old World grace and a subtle balance of warm colors and rich woods. The key difference here, though, was the decorations.

The bookshelves that lined these walls held the most precious of her library—many were signed first editions, complete with warm dedications addressed to the enigmatic doctor. And there were pictures, of Magnus with assorted celebrities, ranging from Joe Lewis to Gandhi and Einstein, and of Helen with her family and staff over the years.

This was where Helen let herself relax, where Magnus the scientist took a backseat to Helen the woman.

"And you know, I've told 'em there's no point explaining all that gobbledegook to me, but they just go on and on and on—"

"O'Neill."

Magnus' voice cut off his rambling with sharp efficiency.

"Yeah?" He looked at her, with his best _who, me?_ face on, only to find tired blue eyes looking up at him.

"Do be quiet."

The gentle admonition almost brought a smile to his lips. He should've known she'd see through his not-so-subtle attempt at distraction. But she'd gone along with it, allowed him to escort her here, and that was what mattered. He released his hold on her, and her hand gave his arm a light pat of appreciation as she stepped away. With a soft sigh, she moved towards her bedchambers.

Halfway there, she paused, and turned back to look at Jack, her hand trailing along the back of the couch he would no doubt find himself sleeping on before the night was out. Blue eyes met his gaze with startling clarity.

"Thank you." She said finally, her voice soft. "For coming."

It was all she said, but more than he needed. From her, for this, gratitude wasn't necessary. He owed her one—or several—but she'd never seen it that way, and neither did he. She was a friend, a friend unlike any he'd had before. He'd do this again and more for her, and knew she would do the same for him.

But he nodded once, accepting the thanks graciously. "I'll be here if you need anything," he assured her. It was only mid afternoon, but if fate was smiling, she'd sleep late into the night—maybe even 'til morning.

This time she was the one who nodded. She hesitated a moment more, but then turned and finally disappeared into her bedroom. The door had just clicked shut behind her when the door to the hall reopened, admitting the hulking form of the Big Guy.

"You just missed her," Jack said softly, hoping Magnus wouldn't hear him.

"Doesn't matter," the Big Guy grunted, his voice equally soft. "It'll keep."

Jack looked at the platter of food the butler placed on the nearby coffee table, and realized he was right. He spotted homespun bread and hard cheese, along with an assortment of fruits and vegetables that would last for a few hours without spoiling. He tucked his hands in his pockets as the Big Guy turned back to look at him.

"You staying here?" came the gruff question.

Jack nodded. "Yeah."

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

The Big Guy huffed good-naturedly in response. "I'll bring some up." And with that, he turned and left Jack alone in the room.

When silence descended, he took advantage of it to use the Sanctuary's landline to call the SGC. He successfully negotiated for an additional three days to stay at the Sanctuary—he figured he wouldn't need much more than that. Magnus was nothing if not resilient. But when he returned the phone to its cradle, and in the following silence heard a muffled sound emanate from the closed door to Magnus' bedchambers, his heart sank.

He crept up to the heavy wooden doorframe with the stealth he'd learned in the Black Ops, and held his breath as he listened with his ear to the door. It didn't take him long to discern the faint sound of heartrending sobs coming from within.

Familiar dread flooded his gut, and with a sinking stomach he slid to the floor with his back to the wall.

Maybe he'd overestimated her. Maybe he'd overestimated _himself_. Maybe this really was more than he knew what to do with. For a brief moment, he considered calling Hammond back and asking for more than the three days. But he disregarded that thought with a shake of his head. If all this really was so much more than he could handle, then staying three days wouldn't do any less good than staying a month would.

All he knew he could do, at this point, was simply be there.

And so he stayed, leaning up against the wall beside her bedroom door, and listened for any sign of distress besides the overwhelming grief. He listened as her sobs eventually quieted, and when he didn't hear any further sounds of movement from within, he figured—or rather, hoped—she had cried herself to sleep. The Big Guy brought the coffee as promised, and Jack used it to remain alert as the sun set and the hours crept by.

It wasn't until the dead of night—two or three in the morning, he reckoned—that his solitary vigil over Magnus was interrupted by the arrival of yet another visitor. He didn't recognize this one though, and something tickling the back of Jack's awareness warned him about the man's presence. As Jack stood from his seat on the floor, he gave the newcomer a cursory once-over.

The man was tall, pale, dressed in black. There was a scar on one cheek and he had a long, angular jaw that supported an increasingly animalistic grin that set Jack's instincts on edge. Dark eyes glittered in the low light of the drawing room, and of course it didn't escape Jack's observation that the man was completely and utterly hairless.

And with that comprehension, Jack was certain this guy was bad news. Everyone knew that bald guys were more likely to be evil. And this guy didn't even have eyebrows.

"Can I help you?" he asked guardedly, moving away from the door in an effort to let Magnus sleep.

Humorless eyes turned on him, though a moment later a grin spread across his lips. "Oh, I don't think so," came the response.

Huh. The guy sounded like Magnus. Kinda.

But where Helen's accent was warm and gentle, this guy was predatory and malevolent. And it didn't escape Jack that Baldie was looking him over like a predator investigating potential prey. It didn't sit well, but Jack kept his cool.

"Then you don't have any business here tonight," he countered with all the smoothness he could muster. The guy creeped him out, and he sure as hell wasn't going to foist him on Magnus. She had enough to deal with.

"My business is none of your concern," Baldie said, his voice hardening. "My business is with Helen, not her latest dalliance."

_Dalliance?_ That was a word Magnus would use. It definitely wasn't from this century, that was for sure. But in all the years he'd known Magnus, private though she was, she had never once mentioned a friend from her youth.

"Yeah, dalliance or not, I'm gonna have to _insist_ you keep your business for tomorrow. Helen needs rest, so why don't you go back downstairs, so the Big Guy can get you all set up in your own room, and you can kick back and relax 'til she wakes up in the morning."

"I'm afraid you're not in a position to stop me." Baldie took a menacing step forward, but Jack planted himself firmly between the taller man and Magnus' bedroom door.

"Bite me," Jack countered, losing patience. He'd tried being nice. Daniel would've been proud.

The man arched an eyebrow, but more out of amusement than actual surprise.

"Well, now, I can see why Helen likes you," Baldie remarked, his voice mocking. Jack heard a sound at his back as the bedroom door behind him opened, and the man's dark gaze immediately focused on his quarry. "Tell me, Helen, is his tongue as sharp between the sheets as it is out of it?"

Jack didn't have a chance to take offense before Magnus was brushing past him. Her shoulders were squared and braced for a fight. She was still wearing the same black dress, though now it was crinkled, as though she had slept in it. Her hair was mussed as well, but when she spoke, her voice was strong and clear.

"He is my guest, and you would do well to remember that you lost your say in my choice of bedpartners decades ago." She stalked towards the visitor, head held high.

Baldie grinned. "And am I not a guest as well?"

"Not when you invite yourself into my personal chambers in the dead of night," came the terse, clipped response. "Now what do you want?"

"What, no small talk? No introductory parlay?"

Helen inhaled deeply. "I buried my daughter today," she delivered, her exhaustion slipping through her mask. "If you want foreplay, come back next century."

Jack stared in stunned silence. He'd never heard Magnus raise her voice in anger, before the mild incident in the garden, and even then there hadn't been the rage that now colored her voice.

What she said struck a chord in him; words of nightmares and painful memories echoed in Jack's mind. Looking at the two's locked gazes, he realized that Magnus knew this guy intimately, and then, suddenly, everything fell into place.

This guy had to be either John or Jack, and was the reason she'd insisted on using his surname. And whoever he was, he was dangerous, and if Magnus was this concerned, then he was _extremely_ dangerous.

For a long moment, Baldie held Magnus' glare. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, nearly thrumming with sensual intensity.

"I've found her," came the hushed confession. Jack didn't dare ask who _she_ was. "Paris."

Helen's eyes narrowed. "Shall I assume you have already taken care of it?"

"Not yet." Baldie's response made Helen freeze, and the tension in the room multiplied tenfold until Jack could barely breathe. "I waited for you, Helen."

It was a long moment before Magnus' choked voice broke the silence. "What?"

"I know where she is," Baldie continued, his voice suddenly dark, and seductive. "I know which hotel she's staying at for the night, the exact room she thinks will hide her from us. From her crimes."

Slow, long strides brought Baldie closer to Magnus, who stood rooted to the spot. Pale fingers reached up to trace one of Helen's tussled curls.

"She waits for us, like a doe grazing in our sights. She is oblivious, unaware of her certain end."

"Stop…" Helen's voice was breathless, and Jack saw her trembling. Her eyes, though—they scared him the most. They were dark, darker than he'd ever seen them before.

"Stop? _She_ didn't stop, Helen," Baldie growled, his fingers tightening on the lock of hair he was toying with. But he made no move to harm her. "She corrupted your father, imprisoned him within his own mind. And she didn't stop there. She manipulated you, played you like a fiddle to get the Source Blood, and then stole both it and our daughter from under your very nose. But even that wasn't enough. She used the Source Blood to turn Ashley into a puppet, an abomination to use at her whim."

Magnus was visibly trembling now, and Jack felt a surge of adrenaline shoot through his system, sensing a coming fight. She didn't say a word in response, but if Baldie's smug expression was anything to go by, the bastard was getting to her.

Hell, Baldie was getting to _him_. Jack realized the extent of the travesty, and suddenly, he was wondering if Ashley was even dead at all. Mentally, spiritually, it seemed that she was, but was her body still being used by this mysterious _she_? Had Magnus been forced to say goodbye to her child even as her physical likeness was being used as a tool?

And on top of all that, Baldie was Ashley's father?

The thought made Jack's stomach turn.

"She needs to be stopped, Helen," Baldie continued. "And who better to put her in her proper place six feet under than the very people she destroyed? Who better than you—her intended victim all along?"

Magnus remained silent, her hands held stiffly at her sides. Jack wanted to go to her, to break the spell the mysterious man had woven around her. But something held him back. It wasn't the presence of Tall, Bald, and Dangerous—he was imposing, yeah, but really lacked the weight of a Goa'uld system lord.

But maybe, somehow, he knew that she had to break the spell herself.

Jack knew what was being offered. It was vengeance, pure and simple. A chance to exact revenge against the woman who had killed Ashley. And Jack knew that he couldn't help Magnus with that. He couldn't advise her on an option that had been denied him. Charlie hadn't been murdered in cold blood, or by another's hand. There was no killer Jack could hate, besides himself.

This was something Magnus had to decide for herself, on her own.

And if Helen was anything like him, she would want it. She would want to punish this _she_ with every fiber of her being, would want this _she_ to suffer as much as humanly—or otherwise—possible. It was a dark temptation, a bloodlust so primal not even Helen could ignore. She was a mother, a mother who had just lost everything.

"No."

Jack looked up with startled eyes, surprised by the sudden clarity of Helen's voice. By all appearances, so was Baldie. Dark eyes chilled in surprise.

"No?" The man's accented snarl lifted, his features twisting into a mask of furious consternation. "No? Dear _God,_ Helen, she murdered our daughter! You can't tell me you don't want to see her dead!"

"No one is that good a liar," came the cool response. There was as much rage in her voice as Baldie's, but hers was tempered—and infinitely more dangerous to Jack's trained ear. "But what I want doesn't matter."

"So you'd rather see her live out the rest of her days in plush anonymity? To never answer for her crimes?" Baldie pulled away abruptly, rage flashing in his eyes. Jack was instantly on edge, his fingers reaching for the sidearm against his side. But Magnus was unwavering.

"I didn't say I was going to stop you. Or protect _her_." Her voice was cold, but perfectly polished. Jack remained on standby, his eyes tracking every twitch, every movement Baldie made.

"I learned long ago that you operate by your own code," Magnus continued. "And Ashley was your daughter as well as mine. I will not deny you your right." She fixed him with a fierce glare of her own. "But I'll have no part in it."

"Helen…"

"NO!" The bellow scorched their ears, and this time, even Baldie seemed taken aback. "It may be true that it was your gifts to Ashley that were exploited by the Cabal, but those bastards did _not_ win! Not completely!"

"What madness do you spin now—?"

"She may have gotten her thrill of the hunt from you," she continued, her voice lowering to a more even keel, "but that wasn't all she was. She did not die the monster the Cabal made her. She died as _my_ daughter, to save me." She met Baldie's gaze with a fierce one of her own. "I will not taint her memory by becoming a monster myself."

For a long moment, tense silence filled the room. Baldie stared at Magnus, his features a disconcerting blend of rage, disgust, and—love. And a gratitude, of sorts. It took Jack by surprise, but Magnus remained steadfast. She met his gaze squarely, her brow furrowed in stubborn resolve.

Finally, Baldie pulled back. "So be it," he snarled. "I will do what you are too _delicate_ for. As I have always done."

And then, with a swirl of his black trench coat—_cliché, _Jack observed—Baldie stormed from the room, leaving two stunned people in his wake. Jack held back, letting his friend have the distance she needed. He shouldn't have been present for the conversation, he knew that. It wasn't meant for his ears.

Something had happened between the two, within each of them—something profound. And something about the way Magnus remained stiff as a board, rooted to the spot, told him that whatever it was wasn't finished yet.

Hesitantly, he took a step forward, allowing the sole of his shoe to scuff across the hardwood floor, reminding her gently of his presence. The sound made her whole body jerk, and her head whipped around to look at him—she'd forgotten he was there.

But she instantly relaxed when she recognized him… well, not quite relaxed. Her shoulders lowered though, and while the tension remained, she wasn't quite so on edge.

Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets, falling back into the tried and true practice of nonchalance.

"So, was that Jack or John?" he asked uncomfortably. He meant it half-jokingly, as a means to break the ice, but to his surprise, and discomfort, a short sigh escaped her.

"I'm not sure," she confessed, her voice heavy. Jack waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. Her words remained cryptic.

In quiet moments that followed, Jack watched her carefully. She didn't meet his gaze once—a first, in the entire time he's known her. She was a direct individual, unapologetic and unashamed. It was one of the things he'd admired about her.

He'd never seen her so… so broken.

"Magnus, what you did—"

"I didn't _do_ anything, O'Neill." Her voice was just as hard as it was when she went head to head with Baldie. It stung, more than he wanted to admit, but he acknowledged that she was entitled.

He shrugged, brushing the scathing reply off. "But that's what counts," he told her. "You didn't…"

When her eyes finally lifted to his, he let the platitude drift. He meant to tell her she'd made the right decision—getting vengeance would have destroyed her. He knew it, she knew it… but he had to wonder whether she wasn't already broken.

"_All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing_."

Her voice was low, dark. Jack recognized the quote; Edmund Burke, if he wasn't mistaken.

"A good man would have stopped him," she continued, her voice thick with self-recrimination. "A good man would have convinced him to spare her life."

The identity of _her_ may still be secret, but he wasn't as thick as Daniel believed he was. _She_ was the story behind the memorial plaque in the garden—the reason Ashley was dead. And he knew that _she_ didn't deserve any mercy.

"A saint might have put in the effort," he told her. "Emphasis on _might_. But we both know that no one was gonna stop him, even if they wanted to."

It was true. The man was a killer—Jack had seen enough in his time to know.

Magnus blinked, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "I didn't even _want_ to."

The confession was a whisper, hoarse and rasping in her throat. Her hands rested on the back of the love seat in front of her, her head hung in shame. Jack took a single step towards her, and laid a light hand over hers.

"That doesn't make you a bad person, Helen."

It was the first time he'd used her given name, and it had the desired effect. Her head lifted sharply, but this time, her eyes were angry, flashing in the low light of her sitting room.

"Doesn't it?" she fired back, tearing her hand from his. "An eye for an eye? Is that what the world is coming to? Her death won't bring my daughter back, and I—" Her voice caught. "And I'm still alone."

She took a breath, bringing herself back together as best she could. "I know all that, and still… And still I want that woman to pay for her crimes. I want her to know what it's like to know her world is going to end." The tears welled again, and this time they spilled over.

"I'm no better than he is… And I'm a coward for letting him do the dirty work."

In one stride he was in front of her, his hands gripping her tightly by the arms. He shook her sharply, just once, and looked her straight in the eye.

"Stop it." It was a voice he took with his subordinates, to catch the attention of the wayward airman. He was relieved to see it worked on 160 year-old doctors too. Her gaze snapped to his, eyes wide in startled shock.

"You listen to me right now," he continued, not dropping the brisk command from his voice. "You, Helen Magnus, are not a murderer. If you'd taken that guy up on his offer, you would've blamed yourself for the rest of your life… Everything you stand for, everything you've worked for—you'd've lost it. All of it."

"Haven't I anyway? I want—"

"Wanting her dead doesn't make you a monster. Wanting her to suffer doesn't make you a monster." His tone softened, as did his grip. He lifted one hand to gently brush the tousled hair from her face, then frame one side of her face, the touch almost intimate.

"It makes you human."

His declaration hung in the tense atmosphere of the room, the words lingering for a long moment. But then, suddenly, her shoulders twitched under his hand, and a sob escaped her. Slowly, her eyes closed, freeing the tears pooling in them, her features crumbling.

She pressed forward, into his ready embrace. He held her close as her shoulders shook with sobs of relief, heartbreak, gratitude, and lingering doubt, and in the long minutes that followed, he realized the weight that had been hanging over her head.

He'd met his share of perceived immortals. Goa'uld, Tok'ra, and robots who lived for centuries and centuries, all of whom had lost touch with that elusive spark of humanity. Magnus was the one person on Earth who even came close to that immortality, but she wasn't like the others.

The others were removed, detached, even cruel… Helen wasn't. She had compassion, a love and respect for life in all of its varied forms—the one thing that all so-called higher beings out there in the universe lacked.

He hadn't realized before how much she must rely on that compassion. Not only to reassure the rest of the world, but to reassure herself that she wasn't slowly descending into a god complex. Killing the mysterious _she_ would have been that first step—but her desire to see the woman dead had shaken her anyway. She needed him to reassure her this time; remind her she was still human.

The knowledge that she'd unleashed a dangerous man like Baldie on the woman would weigh on Magnus' conscious—it should. Because guilt is another reminder of humanity, a reminder she desperately needed. But the more Jack thought about it, the more he realized that there hadn't really been any other choice. The possibility of stopping the man notwithstanding, what could they have done?

In the human world, the bitch would have been arrested, hauled in front of a judge, found guilty as sin, and then (hopefully) sentenced to a very lethal injection. But Magnus and her people didn't answer to the human world. They were beyond that, and more often than not her enemies were as well.

So what, this _she_ would have been apprehended by the Sanctuary network and imprisoned for the rest of her life in one of the many Sanctuaries around the globe? No one on the planet would have expected that of the mother whose daughter was the victim. The only other option left would be to let the woman remain on the lam, left free to wreak more havoc on the Abnormal and Normal world alike. And that, Jack acknowledged, simply wasn't an option at all.

But there was no opportunity for him to explain all that to Magnus now. She'd heard all she needed—the rest would come later, in her own time, and by her own reasoning. That'd be the only way she'd accept that anyway. So for now, he simply let her break down, knowing instinctively, and from experience, that it was what she needed.

She couldn't begin rebuilding what was left of her life until she did.

Eventually, she let him lead her back to bed. He tucked her in, and waited the few short minutes until she slipped into a tortured, exhausted sleep before slipping out on silent feet. This time, she slept for almost eighteen hours; Jack bore witness to several episodes of hushed sobs from behind the closed door, but she returned to sleep without once emerging.

The remainder of his three days' leave were spent standing vigil, with only abbreviated attempts at interaction with Magnus, consisting of him trying to get her to eat something, but always resulted in him leaving a plate on her bedside table that would remain untouched until he brought in the next one. It was out of character for her, he knew, but he knew just as well that her shock could last for weeks.

His last day of leave, at sundown, he ventured into her room for the last time. She was sleeping, and he was able to kneel by the head of her bed before her tired eyes fluttered open. The vivid blue was dulled, but not feverish, and she didn't seem confused, which he took as a good sign. He ran a hand over her hair, brushing her bangs from her eyes.

"I have to leave," he told her softly. She nodded her understanding, but didn't say anything. He lifted his free hand, showing her the small white card he held trapped in his fingers. "These are all the numbers you can reach me at. Home, cell, office…" He set the card down on the corner of her bedside table, before continuing. "If you need to talk, listen, as questions—anything. Call me. Anytime. If I'm not—"

He almost said _offworld_, but he still needed to maintain some kind of confidentiality for the Stargate Program, even if this was Helen Magnus.

"If I'm around," he amended belatedly, "I'll answer. No matter what. I promise."

She nodded again, and he wondered how much she really comprehended. But even if he wasn't getting through to her now, she would later, he was sure of it. He met her gaze for a long moment, then finally leaned forward to kiss her cheek lightly. His lips lingered for a moment, before moving the short distance to her ear.

"You will live through this," he told her, his voice a husky whisper heavy with his own familiar heartbreak. "You will survive—for her."

He pulled back, and saw a tear trail across the bridge of her nose. He hesitated a moment, and then, with one last brush of her hair, he moved to rise and leave. He was stayed, however, by the long, slender fingers that wrapped around his wrist.

"Thank you."

It was the second time she'd offered her gratitude, and the second time he didn't need it. The truth between friends never warranted anything in return. But he met her gaze squarely, as he did before, and nodded.

"Always."

It was the last word he said to her. Within the hour he was gone, pausing only to leave a flower at the marker in the Old Garden—one of Ashley's favorite places, he remembered now. He left with a silent nod to the Big Guy before getting a cab to the airport.

He reported to Hammond by midnight, offering no information other than the situation was personal, that he was hopeful it would be resolved before long, and that he'd done all he could. It was the truth, and the good General asked nothing more of it, for which he was profoundly grateful. Because in the privacy of his on-base quarters, he let himself break.

The tears came, hot and heavy, as images of a laughing little boy flashed across his memory, mingling with visions of a beaming blonde-headed imp. Blood tainted the sacred memories, staining both of them until death overtook them both, leaving them empty and hollow. Together, they haunted his nightmares that night, leaving him exhausted by the time he had to pull himself together for SG-1's next mission briefing.

The next day, he went off-world with his team. They probably noticed his unusual silence, but no one said a word about it. The mission was quiet, uneventful, and it was an easy walk back to the 'Gate three days later. He sat through the debrief, and as soon as it was over he went straight to his office. Once there, he found a voicemail waiting for him on his cell.

"_Umm… Hi."_

The voice was hesitant and unfamiliar, a clear sign he didn't know the caller, and that the caller didn't know him.

"_This is Doctor Will Zimmerman, and I work with Helen Magnus. I found your number on her desk…"_

Alarm and concern flooded through him, and he fought the urge to pick up his desk phone and call her. His mind pieced together that it must be the tall nerdy-looking guy speaking—there was no reason a man he'd never officially met should be calling before Magnus did. The reason he could think of was if… she'd hurt herself. That she'd…

No. She wouldn't.

Would she?

"_Uh… Look, Colonel O'Neill… I know you were here a couple days ago. I don't know how you know Magnus, or what you did, what you said…"_

The knot of fear only grew as the younger man skirted the issue, and failed to get to whatever point he was trying to get across. When Daniel did it, it was a nuisance, one he suffered with some small measure of amusement. Not this guy. Not now.

With a growl in his throat, he reached for the landline.

"_But… whatever it was, I—we… We just wanted to say…"_

The hesitant pause felt interminable, but he waited. Then…

"_Thank you."_

His breath left his lungs with a _whoosh_, leaving his knees weak and his pulse racing. He sank into his chair, hanging his head in relief even as he kept the cell glued to his ear.

"_Will, these reports are all over the place. Do you honestly expect me to be able to read them?"_

The voice trailing over the other end of the line was gruff, feminine, and undeniably welcome. It was Magnus, irritable and sharp… but coherent. With it. _Alive._

"_Right, sorry—"_

Zimmerman's voice cut off abruptly as the call disconnected.

Improper phone etiquette, to be sure, but Jack wouldn't hold it against him. He'd said what he'd called to say, and from the sounds of it, Magnus was an inch from biting his head off. And on top of that, it seemed they both knew that Magnus would be less than pleased to find out that the boy had called him without her knowledge.

Even so, when the computerized voice sounded the end of the message, his fingers moved almost as if they had a mind of their own. He pressed the indicated button, and then the robot-girl's voice spoke again, professional and impersonal.

_Message saved._

Flipping the phone closed, Jack smiled. The weight in his chest was lifted, and it felt like he hadn't taken a real breath in ages. He took a few deep breaths in practice, and his grin broadened. Then, slipping the phone back into his pocket, he stood and left his darkened office. He paused in the corridor, then strode off to the left, settling on the commissary over the surface as his destination.

Cake, he decided to himself. This called for cake.


	2. Chapter 2

She wasn't certain how long after O'Neill's departure it was that she woke up. All she knew was that the shaft of light poking in through some crack in the curtained windows refused to let her fall back into the oblivion of sleep. But as soon as she was awake enough to think past the surprisingly painful nuisance, she was taken aback that she didn't know how much time had passed.

Time was something she always felt keenly—sometimes painfully so. Being unaware of it… it unsettled her more than she thought it should. Sitting up, she allowed the duvet to pool around her waist, revealing rumpled silk pajamas she didn't remember getting into.

But her further discomfiture was dispelled by the realization that she should be in a black dress—the dress she wore to the memorial. Ashley's memorial.

Ashley was dead.

Her gut clenched so tightly she swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat. Guilt, remorse, horror, and grief all roiled in her chest, each fighting for dominance in her narrowed awareness. For a long, dizzying moment, the overwhelming loss threatened to pull her back under, back into the infinite abyss she'd been floating in for the past… unknown number of days.

This time, though, a deep breath filled her lungs, buoying her back up to the surface. Her eyes opened, and she was once again faced with the shadowed interior of her bedchamber, quiet and lifeless. Unable to bear the sight of it any longer, she swung her legs out over the hardwood floor and forced herself out from under the now-stifling heat of the bedclothes.

She crossed the distance to the window on surprisingly shaky feet, and flung the curtains open. The stubborn sunlight now flooded the room, blinding her in its intensity. The physical pain was welcome, and she waited patiently for her vision to clear. When it did, she saw that it was late afternoon. Below, the rest of the world continued—cars moved steadily along the road, and more than a few people were out and about, enjoying the beautiful weather.

The world kept turning, though hers had ended.

_You will survive this_.

The words sounded unbidden in her ears. She barely remembered hearing them, but knew instinctively that O'Neill had spoken them. Had they come from anyone else, they would have been disregarded as so much noise from well-meaning empathizers. But O'Neill…

O'Neill knew. That was why she'd called him. She needed to make some sort of sense from this, and knew that he had found it in regards to his own son.

And now, she felt a certain peace. Maybe because of O'Neill. Maybe because of the ghostly apparition she'd seen in the temple. It had undoubtedly been a result of poor eating habits and even poorer sleep, but the image of Ashley's smiling face put her soul at ease. A little.

Abandoning the window, she moved with purpose to the bathroom. A shower first, then… Then she'd think of the next step. Food, probably, if she could keep it down.

Being clean for the first time in days made a world of difference, she learned a short time later. Her movements became sharper, and no longer feeling as though she were swimming in cotton. And the last of the cobwebs cleared from her mind, allowing her to think unhindered. Of course, with that came all the duties she'd been neglecting—she barely noticed that her bed had been made in the time she'd been showering, so intent was she in moving into the sitting room.

She found food waiting for her there, and she realized then that her old friend had been hovering, just waiting for a chance to care for her. The cracker and cheese she nibbled on was fresh, and her stomach growled in anticipation of the needed sustenance. Continuing to snack in small bites, she moved to her study, intent on finding the radio she kept the top drawer.

Upon finding it, she brought the microphone to her lips.

"All staff be advised," she said, her voice clear and more stable than she could have thought possible. "There will be a staff meeting in my office, in one hour."

The words sounded sharp even to her ears, but she decided it was better than breaking down. It also precluded her usual warning to not be late. It was a well-known peeve of hers, but she was sure the shock of hearing her returning to business would have them in her office well before the appointed time.

In the meantime, though, she had other things to tend to.

Leaving the radio and her office behind, her feet traced the familiar steps down the hall, which loomed dark and silent in front of her. The route is as ingrained as her daily routine, and she is standing at the threshold of her destination, trepidation roiling in her gut. She didn't want to enter the room before her, but she knew she had to.

She needed to.

She twisted the heavy knob and slowly pushed the door open. Within, the interior was shadowed, dull and lifeless—just as its inhabitant now was. Swallowing painfully, Helen stepped inside, facing the abandoned belongings with more courage than she actually felt. Her legs shook as she moved deeper into the room, her eyes adjusting to reveal an unmade bed and a clutter that spoke of impatience rather than slovenly tendencies.

Helen had raised her daughter in a world where order was key to maintaining harmony. Her upbringing had stuck with Ashley, she knew, but she knew it took an act of God to keep her in one place for more than five minutes. The clutter wasn't trash, but rather tasks that Ashley hadn't completed yet.

Yet.

Helen bit her lip, realizing that _yet_ was now _never_. Ashley would never piece together the old Colt .45 she'd found in the catacombs. She would never flip through the rest of the magazine splayed open across her desk. She would never finish typing the report saved on the laptop still whirring away. She would never load the clip that sat on the window seat, next to the ammo can of 9mm rounds. She would never fold the jumbled pile of clean clothes lying in the bin—she would never pick up the few dirty items from the floor.

Setting her lips in a grim line, Helen felt her heart rip open a little more. But her eyes remained dry; she doubted she had any tears left.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she moved briskly to the bed. With gentle efficiency she straightened the sheets, tucking in corners and edges before pulling the quilt tight across the mattress. The pillows got fluffed, and the afghan got folded and draped across the end of the bed.

She picked up the laundry, put away the fresh clothes. She shut down the laptop, closed it up, and settled on the shelf above the desk. She would have time to look through it later, transfer anything pertaining to the Sanctuary to the mainframe. Anything personal would remain locked within—she would respect her daughter's privacy, even in death.

And the rest—the rest of the clutter would stay where it was. Helen knows that her heart would skip every time she caught a glimpse at the room, with so much of her daughter's life just waiting for Ashley to come back and pick up where she left off. It would hurt, but the thought of changing anything at this point hurt even more.

A scuffle of sound from the doorway startled her, setting her pulse racing. But instead of an angry blonde shouting at her about shattered privacy, Helen found the tall form of her manservant lingering nervously in the hall. He was wary of her, she knew, and a spark of guilt flashed through her.

"How long?" she asked softly. She meant to clarify, but her voice left her before she could. Luckily, her old friend knew her mind.

He took a step forward, not quite breaching the threshold of the room. "Colonel O'Neill left yesterday afternoon," he huffed quietly in return.

Helen nodded, hiding her surprise by gazing around the room. She'd thought it had been longer than that. She was glad it hadn't been.

"The others got my message, then?"

He grunted in affirmation. "We were all glad to hear it."

She turned to face him, remorse in her heart. "I'm sorry, old friend… for being so selfish." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I know I'm not the only one hurting."

She did know—she just hadn't been able to see it through her own grief. But her old friend had been there for her through everything, starting from the moment that James helped transfer the embryo from its cryostasis to her womb. He had been there through the hormone changes, and the cravings, and it had been his hand she crushed during the near 36 hours of childbirth. He'd held Ashley, helped care for her. Ashley had always known love from both of them, and had loved them both in return.

Now, that bond had been severed, for both of them.

But her old friend shrugged away his own pain. There was a sadness in his gaze, but not for himself—for her. For all that she'd lost.

Helen could only find herself envious of his calm acceptance of this new, dark reality.

"You want the room kept the way it is." His rumbling voice stated a fact, rather than posed a question.

She nodded, her chin quivering despite her efforts to remain as calm as her companion. "Keep it clean, but please… don't move anything?"

"Of course…"

The words hung in the air, and eventually, she simply nodded in thanks. Giving the room one last look, she eventually glanced at her watch. "It's nearly time," she observed carefully. She moved towards the door, but when her friend moved to make space for her to pass by unhindered, she paused.

Reaching out, she laid a hand on his forearm, the muscle heavy beneath her fingers. He returned the gesture, resting his palm on her shoulder. He squeezed, gently, a gesture she returned with a squeeze of her own.

After a moment, he nodded. "I'll meet you there." With that, he let her be, allowing her a moment to herself.

Once he was gone, she debated whether to turn around or not. She'd finally decided on not, only to have her attention grabbed by a glint of metal out of the corner of her eye. Looking more closely, she saw that the glint was light reflecting off a gold-plated Jericho resting abandoned on a nearby shelf.

With a sharp pang of remembrance, Helen recognized it. It was one of a pair, the one that Ashley kept in her room for personal protection. At least, that was what Ashley had attested. With two, there had been one for her to take into the field, and one to keep her safe should the unthinkable happen, and she needed protection in her bedchamber. But Helen figured it was so she would always have a back up, should one be lost in the field.

And one had been—this one's mate had never been recovered from the belly of the Cabal.

Lost, as Ashley had been.

Instinctively, not pausing long enough to think about it, Helen gripped the gun, gently lifting it from its resting place. She cradled it in both hands, hefting its weight with care. She let her fingers run along its length, tracing the details and edges. When her fingers curled around its grip, she could almost feel the warmth of Ashley's hand against the plastic molding.

All it took was a thought, and then she was heading back down the hall to her own chambers. Holding the weapon close, she moved dispassionately through the sitting room, and the through the door to her bedroom.

She knew she had only a few short minutes before she needed to go to the meeting she'd called herself, but she took a moment to consider the moment once more. Her thoughts raced, bouncing from Ashley to rules of propriety to practicality and then back round to Ashley. In the end, the need to keep her daughter close overrode all other sense.

With a decisive nod, she slid the weapon home, beneath her pillow. Her old friend would know better than to move it—and she took pride in making her own bed most days in any case. It would remain there, out of sight, until she was alone. Then, on the verge of sleep, she could reach out and grasp onto the last shred of her daughter she could find.

It felt appropriate—it felt right.

One more deep breath passed her lips, and then Helen left her bedchamber, closing the door on the treasure inside. She locked the turmoil shifting and growling in her mind away, behind the same door that safeguarded the weapon now more precious than any other arms on Earth.

But as soon as the door clicked shut, the pain had subsided to a dull ache in her chest. It was persistent, but she could think now. She could function. She could answer to her responsibilities, care for the others under her care.

She could survive.

She could deal with the pain as it waxed and waned, as she knew it would. But for now…

For now, she had a Sanctuary to run.

* * *

><p><strong>FIN<strong>


End file.
